


Modest and Unassuming

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Attempt at Humor, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Light-Hearted, skyhold is just really confusing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2769275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan comes home to a completed bedroom that's entirely too big for an elf, so she goes to the tavern to have a drink about it and gets lost.</p><p>Pre-Cullen/Lavellan fluff, written with my phone and probably full of errors (woops!)<br/>Lavellan's physical description and name are as general as possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Modest and Unassuming

"'The Herald's Rest?' Seriously?!"

Lavellan wanted to die. She returned to Skyhold after a month of scouting the Hinterlands to find the shambled castle almost entirely reconstructed, complete with a stupid pointy throne pompously poised at the end of a grandoise entrance hall and, Shem's Maker, a stairway to the ballroom that everyone called her "quarters."

The more she thought about it, the more she realized that "ballroom" was actually an understatement. They built her a damn castle. A castle with a giant bed and banners and a lute and a bunch of tacky Dalish paraphernalia that even her own clan would be embarrassed to look at. It had a loft and two storage areas that had these mysterious barrels crammed into the corner, and she spent an unnecessarily large portion of her night deciding if she should lay her bow against them or across the floor. She ended up panicking and placed it, arrows and all, on the left side of her bed because nobody needed that much pillow. Or that much bed. Or that much anything.

"Varric, I'm an elf," she dropped her head against her mug of ale and let out a quiet, dramatic sob. "I'm an elf."

"I know."

"I have to run a marathon to get from the war room to my bed."

"I know--"

"I don't know where the ladders in my closets go."

"I kn--"

"Is this a cult?"

Varric groaned and poured more beer into their mugs. He was momentarily tempted to mention the Sing-quisition to get a nice character sketch for his next novella but decided to save that for another, less appropriate time. Iron Bull appeared at the table with two mugs and another pitcher of ale and sat down with a satisfied sigh, looking over his shoulder for Krem.

"Hi Bull," Lavellan greeted from the muffled confines of her cup. She bent over and shuffled her hands along the floor until she found her lute -- it made a pathetic, bleakly harmonic clank as she brought it up to the table. "Do you want this?"

"Um. No? Not really," Iron Bull took a deep swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his giant hand. 

"Oh, okay." Clank.

\---

Three pints of ale and one mortifying bard experience later, Lavellan was wobbling out of the Official Herald's Rest Tavern of the Inquisition with her best friend The Lute slung like a fishing pole over her shoulder. It was her second night back at the keep. Her legs were still sore from the twenty-two day hike between flaming farmlands and uncharted landmarks, the soles of her boots were slowly peeling off in really weird inconvenient patterns, and she didn't quite know which staircase led to what part of the castle or if she was even in Skyhold at all. She was also disgustingly drunk.

She stumbled toward the stables where Blackwall had apparently cozied up and frowned at the makeshift hay bed in the corner of his very modest and unassuming quarters. He was quietly feeding cubes of sugar to her horse while brushing her mane with a bristle. Lavellan glared daggers into his very modest and unassuming back and stormed off, feeling disproportionately angry at him and her horse and their prime real estate.

She eventually found a door that kind of looked like the one that led to her quarters.With a warm wave of relief, Lavellan fell through it with a huge tired grin across her face, ready to take her boots off and cuddle up to her bow in their bed.

But the door was wrong. It should have led her to her room. It instead chose to lead her straight through an elfroot bush and into the garden. Lavellan let out a faintly maniacal laugh, confidently strutted toward one of the adjacent walls, slid down against it, and came to immediate terms with her boarding accommodations for the night. She spent a few minutes stretching out into various positions in a drunken attempt to make herself comfortable enough to sleep, mumbling to herself about the idiocy of leaving the Free Marches, then another few minutes humming an old Elven folk tune while laying on her back on the damp grass, and another few minutes irritably peeling frayed leather off of her boot with her back propped against the stone wall in defeat. Out of curiosity she strummed a couple of strings on the lute (it sounded terrible) and wondered who in Andraste's ass thought she played the instrument and needed to have it in her bedroom at all. Clank.

Lavellan placed the lute aside and brought her knees up to her chest. The alcohol wasn't quite wearing off but she was definitely feeling a lot colder and her smile started to wear thin. It was all too much to take in, this Skyhold bedroom-castle and all the shems who decided that she was important enough to have it. She winced a little at that thought-- she didn't mean to think of them all as shems. They were very good people, at least to her, and she was extremely grateful for their kindness, but she didn't ask for any of the splendor. She wanted to help solve a problem, not... lead anything. Her head fell forward onto her knees. She missed her clan.

"Herald?" Lavellan whipped her head up and peered through squinting eyes at Cullen, who was hovering a few paces away with what looked like a massive cookie gripped tightly in his hand. "Are you... well?"

She tried to smile at him but her mouth wanted to frown and she ended up casting him a strange and emotional grimace before sloppily plopping her head back down, glaring at him through the mess of her hair. Of all people to find her wretchedy intoxicated in the middle of a stupid mud pile, it had to be him. He studied her for second, head tilted to the side like a curious blond Mabari, before stepping closer to her with his cookie hand extended in an offering. "May I join you?"

Lavellan chuckled and reached for the cookie. She broke off a small piece as he held it steady then shoved her lute further away until it was barely submerged into a patch of newly fertilized soil. Cullen slid down the wall next to her, shuffling with a slight "oh, sorry," when his arm briefly grazed her shoulder. She shrugged and nibbled on her piece of cookie. It tasted like lemons.

"What are you doing up? Working?" She asked, taking a bigger bite. Lemons were very good.

Cullen smiled and picked at his half until he managed to break off a perfectly bite-sized piece. "Finished working for the night. Ha, the night. It's almost morning," his words were slightly muffled by the cookie. He broke off another piece and popped it into his mouth. After a couple of moments of silence, he glanced down at the elf by his side and furrowed his brow. She had her knees tucked tight under her chin and her head cradled into her folded arms. She was shivering.

He leaned forward and shook off his cloak, casted her another long, straight glance and carefully draped it over her shoulders. She let out a soft grunt and melted against him, leaning her head onto his arm as her chest fluttered. He immediately smelled the night's worth of ale on her and chuckled.

"Have fun at the tavern?"

Lavellan rolled out a strangled groan and burrowed her face harder into his tunic. "The Herald's Rest, Cullen, really?" She kept her eyes shut to maintain her equilibrium. Cullen felt incredibly great and warm.

He laughed nervously when he felt the cold tip of her nose through his sleeve, unsure of the arm he wanted to wrap around her. His heart started to beat louder and he worried whether she could hear it.

He cleared his throat. "We finished my office two weeks ago. Have you seen it yet? I'm thinking about calling it 'Not the Herald's Office'." She shook her head with a giggle and wrapped her small fingers around his wrist. He froze with the cold touch. "You--er, you should see it. In the morning. It's--er, it's nice."

"I will, tomorrow," she mewled, still shivering. "Where'd you get that cookie?"

Cullen sighed and gave in to the urge to hold her. He slowly moved his arm from beneath her head and brought it around her small shoulders, knowing that his warmth would quickly lure her closer. Her hand drew small lazy circles on his abdomen until it slowed to a rest on the dip of his hip. He quietly nuzzled into her hair when her head fell against his chest and closed his eyes, letting the smell of flowers and beer lull him to comfort.

"Cullen?"

"Hm?"

"Where'd you get the cookie?"

He smiled. "The kitchen. Second jar from the right on the table. Back door."

"Does the kitchen staff know?"

"No, nor will they."

"Do you take them often?" Her smile shone through her words.

"Only the lemon ones. Three, four times a week."

She laughed. "What, do you finish your work and slink through the garden shoveling stolen cookies into your face after everyone goes to bed?"

"I have to reward myself somehow." Cullen hesitantly moved his free hand up to her hair and brushed it behind her little pointed ear. "What are you doing here?"

Lavellan whined, then laughed crazily until she was reduced to a pathetic horde of hybrid sobs. "I couldn't find my room," she gasped, and laughed again.

Cullen frowned a little and looked down at the hysterical elf in his arms. He snorted. "Really? It's kind of hard to miss--"

She cackled wildly at that. "I know! I'm an elf! Who even needs that much space?!" She shoved her face against his neck and giggled quietly before the exhaustion finally took over. Cullen's arm felt really warm around her and his cloak was so soft, and he smelled like tanned leather and his neck was smooth against her brow. She let out a small noise and wrapped herself even tighter around him.

Cullen let his fingers curl through her hair as he felt her slipping into sleep. He'd craved her touch since the moment he held her limp, half-dead body off of the ice on the mountain pass after Haven. She felt so weightless and good against him, the fragile contours of her frame fit perfectly into the nook of his arms, but the dawn was soon supposed to break and he dreaded the long day he would have to face at the war table when it did. He made a mental note to send a mage over to Lavellan for the heinous hangover she was inevitably going to wake up to.

"Hey," he whispered, regrettably nudging her off of his chest. "Hey, come on, I'll take you back to your quarters."

He slowly sat up and bounced lightly to stretch, then helped the tired elf to her feet. She wrapped his cloak tightly around her body, bunching the extra material into her shaking hands to lift it off the ground. It dragged behind her as she hobbled through the garden, forming a rift in the delicate array of new plants that lined the outlier patches of grass below her feet. She tried so hard not to step on it and did a great job until she tripped over a fold in the fabric and ripped the bottom in two. Horrified, she looked up at Cullen and mumbled something about reimbursing him for the destruction of his property between several heartfelt apologies, but the gentle smile tugging at his lips quieted her almost instantly. He placed a tentative hand around the back of her collar and guided her toward an archway, drinking in the soft tenuity of her bones.

They went through a rackety door and approached the main hall. Lavellan stifled a yawn and looked up at Cullen when his fingers repositioned themselves to cradle the crook of her neck, his thumb brushing the top of her spine as he walked alongside her. "That's the one," he murmered lowly, nodding in the direction of the door nearest to the throne. Her sigh of relieved gratitude warmed the air.

He dropped his hand to his side as they approached her quarters. "How are you feeling?" He asked, pausing when he felt her small fingers knit through his. She threw him a weary smile over her shoulder and started to ascend the staircase with a light tug at their entwined hands. Cullen tilted his head and silently studied the elf through wincing eyes, his blood beating rapidly in his cheeks as he stood still in the middle of the doorway. She gave his hand another short tug and looked over her shoulder again, her eyes casting him a sleepy plea. He shook his head slowly, still watching her beautiful frame with a heavy heart as his resistance began to falter. He knew he wanted her more than anything. He knew she felt the same when she asked him who he left behind in Haven. She tugged one last time and he surrendered, allowing her to lead him up the stairs, head bowed and staring at the floorboards.

Her room was absolutely enormous. Lavellan's bow was still nestled elegantly under the Dalish-pattern quilt and Cullen let out a sincere chortle when she pulled him through the mouth of her closet.

"Cullen, what are these?" She asked, kicking one of the barrels in the corner. He quickly let go of her hand and pressed against the oak panels.

"I can't be certain, but I think they're full of whiskey," he examined the barrels closely and frowned. "Maybe sack mead, but whiskey seems more likely. Why do you have these?"

Lavellan cackled and retreated back toward her bed, kicking her boots off along the way. She turned and saw Cullen leaning nervously against the frame of her closet and offered him her hands. It took a minute but he acquiesced, walking flush against her and wrapping his arms around her in a disarming hug that nearly knocked her over. Her hands shook as she lifted them up to touch his face, outlining his jaw with her fingers before sliding them behind his neck. He let out a soft moan into her hair and held her closer.

"Good night, Herald," he whispered, and she nodded, pulling away and falling face first onto her Dalish pillow.

Cullen dimmed the light of her lantern and made his way down the stairs, smiling to himself at the soft snores he heard coming from her bed.

\---

"The 'Herald's Personal Hangover Mages'? Seriously?!"

Lavellan wanted to DIE. She had woken up to a harrowing migraine and three ornate staffs hovering over her nose in the middle of the damn afternoon and all she wanted to do was cuddle with her bow and Dalish plush toy for the rest of her life. The war council apparently met without her, there was really no reason for her to be awake for another seventeen hours, at least.

The mages managed to dim her headache with unrivaled finesse but she still felt like a pukey mess when she entered the kitchen. The staff bid her a pitying good morning and offered her reign to the cutting board. After emptying two cantinas of water and shoveling a basket of dinner rolls down her throat, she stepped into the courtyard and shook her fists at the glaring sunlight as she set out to search for Cullen. She didn't recall much from the night before but she figured she should see his new office, now that she had daylight to navigate Skyhold by.

Not that it did any good. If anything, the light made everthing worse. While searching for Cullen's damn office, she managed to find two entrances to the smithy, a creepy storage closet filled with booze, the sketchy underground lair they decided to keep future prisoners in, Solas's abstractly painted meditation hangout, Cole (she NEVER sees Cole), and at one point, an alternate entrance to her own quarters.

Out of breath, she finally stumbled up to a newish looking door on the upper floor of the castle wall and flung it open. Cullen's head snapped up and he broke out in a grin. "I was hoping you'd stop by," he said.

"TWO HOURS!" Lavellan didn't mean to slam the door behind her as she marched in. "TWO HOURS TO FIND YOU!"

Cullen's smile turned to a comical frown as he sat at his desk, watching her pace across the floor.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," she stopped and looked around the room. "It's really nice in here."

He thanked her and reached under the table. "Oh, you left this in the garden last night. Here," he pulled out the soiled lute and handed it to her. Clank. She stared down at it before slinging it over her shoulder in defeat. Maybe she'll learn how to play it.

"Listen, about last night, I--" she paused. There was a wobbly ladder in the corner that caught her eye. Cullen sat up quick from his desk and cautiously approached her with his hands turned upward in an explicative fashion.

"No, please don't cli--"

Lavellan quirked her eyebrows and immediately climbed it.

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!" She glared at the pathetic loft that Cullen called his "quarters" for Andraste knows how long, its modest and unassuming bed lopsided and filthy with sawdust. The sky was exposed in several places throughout the collapsing ceiling and she was convinced that the draft was already giving her a cold. Shem's Maker, her tacky Dalish banner alone could patch every hole in the room. She slid down the ladder in a fury and headed for the exit.

Cullen gave an insincere flinch and was about to reach toward her when the door to his office flew open. Solas sauntered in with the three hangover mages levitating bunches of vellum in their wake. Lavellan shoved her lute into Solas's arms on her way out.

"And where do YOU sleep?!" She yelled at him, storming down the walkway and disappearing from sight.


End file.
